…good lord…do I even remember the last time I was out until this early hour?
I think it’s been years…perhaps four. It’s probably a very sad commentary on the status of my social life. Scratch that…no PROBABLY about it.
Another graduation night has come and gone, and my two best teacher friends and I retired afterwards for food and drink (nothing like appetizers plastered with cheese, late at night, when the Pepto-Bismol beckons), to mark the passing of yet another graduation class. It’s one of those rare times when we are, once again, filled with the youthful passion and vigour that drove us to become teachers in the first place…
…but it’s also an antidote to any poisonous illusion that might hide the fact that we’re one year older…and the years are beginning to pile up. The pile up includes joint aches, grey hairs, and the sight of former students, all grown up — scary reality, in 70mm technicolour.
Was it really that long ago that I could stay awake until 2 or 3am, then still wake up fresh and ready to go by 8am? YES…YES it was, apparently. The youthful, spring chicken version of me is gone forever…replaced by the man who rises at 5am every day, and longs for Saturday sleep-in’s…but can only manage to stay in bed until 8am-ish.
So here I am, blogging about the puzzling nature of age and nostalgia for the energy of my teenage past. I was intending to write up a review of the novel Black Swan Green…but really, can you blame me? Being out until 1am is a sign that my pension isn’t beckoning quite yet…but enough of a reminder that sleep is extremely, wonderfully good for an old geezer of 34-going-on-35…something I don’t take for granted.
Anyhow, I will be dead to the world in a few minutes (fingers crossed), so I shall bid you good night, and hope I will be more articulate (and less amazed at the paradoxes of my social life) in a day or so.
